“It would indeed,” answered the boy.
“My spirits can tell me,” rejoined the Prophet. “In my dreams the past and future are revealed to me.”
He made a few cabalistic motions with his hand, and then assumed a rigid attitude, like one in a trance, his head projected as if awaiting a message from some unseen spirit in the air.
“Whisky is said to be the most potent spirit among the Indians,” whispered the irrepressible Cute; “but I don’t see any demijohns around here.”
“Hush! you will anger him,” returned Percy Vere. “It is all a mummery, but we may as well humor it, for our lives depend upon the pleasure of this strange chief.”
Smoholler remained rigid, his eyes assuming a vacant look. His braves stood at a respectful distance, leaning upon their rifles, and watching their leader with an intent interest. These dreams of the Prophet were always fraught with singular consequences. They knew he was holding communion with his spirit, who had appeared to them, in the hideous form that was shown upon the cliff, though he generally kept himself invisible.
“Monedo! Monedo!” murmured Smoholler, in a resonant whisper.
A dead silence ensued, and the boys, despite their incredulity, were thrilled by a feeling new to them—a sort of supernatural awe.
“Master, I am here!”
These words floated above the boys’ heads in clear, distinct tones. They clutched at each other’s arms, and stared blankly around them. They stood apart with the Prophet; there was not a warrior within a hundred paces of them—not a soul from whom the voice could possibly have proceeded.